


Behind Closed Doors

by Write_like_an_American



Series: Gotg Prompt Fic [11]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Bottom!Yondu, Cock Rings, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Gags, Handcuffs, Humiliation, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sensory Deprivation, Slow Burn, Subspace, Verbal Humiliation, dom!kraglin, good clean fun for all the family, sub!yondu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-11 22:48:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5644672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Yondu needs a fuck. Kraglin obliges.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OMEGA1979](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OMEGA1979/gifts).



> **Very self-indulgent dom/sub porn. The hot stuff begins next chapter. I hope you enjoy!**   
>  **Taken from a kink meme prompt entitled 'Yondu is Kraglin's bitch'. That's... really all you need to know.**

They’ve dedicated this sodden planetside evening to squeezing an indebted customer for all that they’re worth.

Flash forwards to the meet point. Yondu’s playing his usual intimidation game. He’s all boisterous grin when he sidles up to the contact, slapping him across the back hard enough to shiver rain off his coat. Once acknowledged – with a grunt and a nod – he inclines his head, directing Kraglin to guard point without a glance or a word, and hones his attention on the client, shunting his barseat in until they bump thighs. 

His intrusion onto the Kree’s personal space looks careless. But Kraglin sees it for what it is: a display of dominance, orchestrated so casually that its effects are as subliminal as its performance overt. This performance only escalates, as Yondu orders something with a high enough alcohol content that the vapour singes Kraglin’s nose hairs. He downs it without a cough, chuckling at the client’s looming attempts to discomfort him, to usurp the power dynamic which has been established from the moment captain and mate swaggered in. The clink of his empty glass on the counter might as well have been a gunshot, for the hush that descends in its wake. 

They’re the only redcoats in the place. This bar’s deep in Kree territory, and whether or not the men and women side-eyeing them from the tables are on the client’s payroll, they’ll come to his defence over that of foreigners. But while the client’s self-assurance is bolstered by the number of potential reinforcements crowding around (not to mention the whole foot of height he has on Yondu) he’s still dwarfed, in Kraglin’s eyes, by the sheer power of his captain’s presence. Minimized. Shrunken. Cowed by that fierce, sharp gold-capped smirk, and the confidence that exudes from his very pores, concentrated into his scent. 

Kraglin can’t help but inhale hungrily. He’s gratified when he picks out that rich masculine musk, that blend of hot leather and radiation that belongs to Yondu alone. Of course, when the barkeep glances his way he pretends to be blowing his nose, and keeps his prick from chubbing through willpower. 

He’s seen Yondu work a thousand times. It still gets him as hot as the day he first met him, although he’s better at hiding it. In fact, the effect’s even more potent nowadays, because he knows how to make Yondu’s projected personality crumble: to have him whining, whimpering, writhing, but waiting for Kraglin’s permission before wrapping deadly lips around his cock. 

Now though, those two images couldn’t be further apart. 

The client hisses something about a job not completed to adequate satisfaction – trying to skimp them on payment; fucker must be new to this side of the business. Faster than a blink, the smile’s gone from Yondu’s face. Arrow’s not out yet – but really, it don’t need to be. He can put fear in this fool by glare alone. And he does so, expression suddenly, horribly flat, eyes hooded and dangerous. 

Yondu always flicks between emotions – fury, laughter, ice cold determination and fury again – as if someone’s mashing buttons on a slot machine. Keeps everyone on their toes, never sure when he’s gonna snap and whistle someone an extra windhole. The effect’s disturbing for everyone except Kraglin. He remains in the shadows. He doesn’t disguise his snicker when his captain reduces the wannabe Kree-warlord to stuttering apologies, but by then, everyone’s too busy gawping at Yondu to notice. By the time they slope into the cool drizzle the Kree’s picked up their tab, promising them that the thousand units will be transferred to their accounts by the end of the day, with interest. 

There’s a spring in Yondu’s step. Droplets go bouncing off his shoulder plates, and his smile is bright and fierce, bordering on a snarl. But there’s something manic about the energy in his eyes. 

Kraglin knows what he wants. What he _needs_. And he knows that he’s the only one trusted enough to give it to him. 

He makes sure no one’s in eavesdropping distance. Then hunches over Yondu’s shoulder and hisses in his ear: “Don’t think I didn’t notice ya checkin’ Kree boy out. Think I better punish you tonight.” 

Yondu doesn’t shudder. He’s still in captain-mode, and he’s got too much self-control for that. But Kraglin sees the tension slip from his shoulders. And when the antsy fidget of his fingers along his arrow shaft ceases, Kraglin smiles. 

The crew, left outside for the duration of the mission, shift to flank them. The sloppiness of their formation belies the military wariness with which they assess every passer-by. They’ve seen him mumbling to Yondu, all up close and personal. But that ain’t nothing to worry about. They’ll assume he’s making a private comment: something job-related, a joke passed between comrades-in-arms. That’s the way it should be. 

It’s a rule they’d set themselves, when they first started this (whatever _this_ was). In the field, Yondu’s boss and no questions asked. But as soon as they’re behind closed doors… 

Kraglin checks himself, settling back into his long-legged lope. He maintains enough distance that he won’t arouse suspicion while letting his shadow intrude on Yondu’s peripherals. Rain patters all around, cool wet fingers sliding over his scalp, and Kraglin scrapes fingers through his straggly Mohawk, teasing out wet tangles before they knot. 

Best make sure Yondu’s got something strong to hold onto, given what he’s got planned for him tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

Kraglin starts off slow. 

He excuses himself from the Bridge an hour before shift's up – perks of being first mate. Quill makes some crack about how he must be getting old, but ducks away when Kraglin makes to box his ears (as Quill is only half a decade his junior, he really can’t talk; and Yondu has _no_ excuse for laughing). Captain’s cabin is on a rarely populated corridor, so, after a hasty over-the-shoulder check to ensure no rookies are spying for gossip material, Kraglin pops the lock and saunters on it. 

He’d grabbed his bag from his locker on the way. Anyone asked, he was headed to the comms deck to do some manual repairs. Little did they know that what looks like a knapsack full of electrical equipment and pre-automaton-age D.I.Y tools is actually stuffed with instruments of a rather different nature. Once he's in, throwing himself onto Yondu’s chair and upending the bag on the desk, he begins to make his selections. He embellishes the idea that’s been on his mind since they walked back from their meeting: Yondu impaled on his lap, oversensitized and squirming, cracked blue nails catching at his Mohawk as Kraglin gently bucks up into him. 

To get him into that state takes careful preparation though. And, usually, a fair amount of swearing – which, with the proper application of force, can be translated to rasping shouts. 

Captain’s walls are fairly soundproof. But seeing how Yondu’s mouth’s his biggest weapon, Kraglin always likes to stopper that first; to get him through those prepping stages in desperate silence, so that when Kraglin finally unbuckles the straps and lets his jaw hang loose, he’s already been fucked pliant and will scream only on Kraglin’s command. 

So, when Yondu slouches in, hands in his pockets and looking ridiculously relaxed for someone who knows they’re about to get fucked five ways to Friday, Kraglin smirks and holds up a hand for him to stop inside the doorway. Yondu shuffles just enough for the panel to click closed behind him – which Kraglin allows, because yeah, it’s only once that door’s shut that Yondu’s his rather than vice versa. While it’s tempting to order Yondu to let Kraglin fuck him over his captain’s chair, he knows what the answer would be. Those fantasies will have to stay that way. 

“Usual words?” he asks, voice light and pleasant. It’s _Trinket_ for slow and _Troll_ for stop, the syllables of which are simple enough to tap out in universal Morse. Yondu shrugs, effecting carelessness. 

“Yeah, whatever.” 

And those are the last words he’ll be speaking as captain tonight. Kraglin settles back on the chair, kicks his boots one over the other, and stares up at his captain from under hooded brows, not letting hunger distort his poker face. 

This is punishment, after all. 

“Strip,” he says. 

*** 

Yondu moves slow, tugging open the belts that hold his coat in place. He works the leather through the small, grubby buckles in increments, and Kraglin has to curl his toes in his boots, reminding himself not to snap at him to speed up. _Patience_. This’s just the first part of their game. Yondu’s gonna test him – old git never could offer up his throat willingly. Their sex is a constant back-and-forth, Kraglin pushing into Yondu’s pull, riding out his bucks until he lets go of it all and Kraglin can catch him. It can be irritating, Yondu’s constant urge to struggle and bite – especially when Kraglin’s already half hard, cock a leaning tent pole that lifts his jumpsuit’s crotch zipper. But if he’s being honest with himself, he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

He smirks. Grinds the heel of his palm on his cock, spreading his legs so the leather pulls taut and Yondu can see every inch of what he’s missing out on. 

“Cheat,” says Yondu. 

“Shut up,” says Kraglin. Yondu does. The coat slithers to the floor, and is left in a limp half-moon around his kicked-off boots. He continues undressing himself in silence, still looking Kraglin dead in the eye, a cheeky pretence at resistance that Kraglin wants to pin, sink his teeth into, and make _writhe_. “Stop,” he murmurs, when the pile of red and grey leather on the floor is at maximum, and Yondu’s standing with his thumbs hooked into his boxers. His small black boxers, the waistband of which just crests the lowest tattoo on his torso, which are, at the moment, even tighter than usual. “C’mere. On my lap. Thassit.” 

Armies marching to his command, a whole fucking planet on its knees before him; nope, no power trip in the galaxy could match the one that flourishes when Yondu obeys _that_ order. 

He’s kept his necklaces on. They patter softly on Kraglin’s leathers, as the captain presses his palms on Kraglin’s shoulders and straddles him. Knees bracket his hips. Yondu’s as powerful as Kraglin scrawny; he’s solid and heavy, skin curiously smooth to the touch as if it’s made of tiny interlocking scales rather than pores. Kraglin tilts up to meet him, chest rubbing Yondu’s belly. He indulges in a kiss. Yondu don’t normally like them, but this ain’t about what he likes – Kraglin owns it all, from the thick blue muscle looping his shoulders to the whiskey on Yondu’s breath. 

Yondu mutters “ _sentiment_ ”, grinning against Kraglin’s mouth. But when Kraglin withdraws and gives him a cool, measured stare, he pretends he never said a word. 

“Now,” he says, smacking away the hand that tries to twist open the popper on his jacket collar. “Yer gonna shut your eyes.” 

There’s a grumble. It doesn’t last. Yondu lowers himself, letting Kraglin take his whole weight, and crosses his arms. He somehow manages to imply that he’s glaring through his eyelids. “Now what?” 

“Reach into the bag an’ fetch me what’s on top. You’ve scoped the place, y’know where it is.” 

On the table behind him. Yondu does so, having to kneel again and feel his way past Kraglin’s head. Cool fingerpads skate his chin. They pause. Reach beyond. Kraglin lets his own eyes drift shut, knowing that Yondu won’t outright disobey him, and concentrates on the feel of the bare chest crushing his, the intensely musky smell of leathers and alcohol that saturates the skin around Yondu’s neck. Then there’s a rustle from the bag from behind him, and muscles in Yondu’s waist flex sharply under his hands. 

“Put it on,” says Kraglin. Opens his eyes to see Yondu slipping the ball between his crooked teeth. “And don’t think ya can fool me by leavin’ it loose. If I wanted to hear a voice as croaky as yours, I’dda smoked a whole pack of huffer this morning.” He runs an appraising thumb over his chin as Yondu tugs the strap tighter, smoothing the stiff stubble and tilting his head this way and that through the light. “Thassit. Eyes still shut. Good boy.” 

The growl Yondu makes is translatable even through the gag. He ain’t opened his eyes and he ain’t tapped out though, so that means they’re still all go. Kraglin lands a light peck on the ball – it’s already a little spitty, but it’ll be a helluva lot worse by the time they’re done – and reaches into the bag to retrieve the collar. 

“Eyes shut,” he reminds him, although it’s unnecessary. Yondu hums through the gag, as if to say ‘duh’. 

The collar’s a new acquisition. Kraglin’s been wanting to try one out for a while, and while he usually gets Yondu’s permission before testing anything on him in the bedroom – fuck knows the last thing he wants is to wake up next to a pissed off captain – he figures one little surprise can’t hurt. It’s a heavy rubber loop overlaid with red leather, cinched in by an adjustable magnetic lock; when Kraglin drapes it over Yondu’s shoulders, his eyes work behind their lids, obviously fighting the urge to open. 

His breathing’s picked up. Kraglin wonders if he knows, if he’s guessed just from that. “Still,” he urges, leaning to fasten it. Their cocks brush, both by now fully erect, although Kraglin’s is locked away behind a pliant leather wall and Yondu’s encased in his boxers. Whether the tiny moan is thanks to that, or because Kraglin’s just activated the magnets and the collar has tightened enough that Yondu has to work to draw air through his nose, Kraglin relishes it either way. 

Once done, he pats him on the cheek, over the straps of the gag, and guides him to stand. “Ya think you can find your way to the bed?” 

Yondu’s breath’s fast and high. His legs are trembling inwards. Just a little, but it’s there. But as Kraglin watches, he calms himself. Straightens from the waist, hands limp at his sides, and controls the suck and blow of air to the pulse of seconds from Kraglin’s wristpiece. 

His eyes roll through the thin blue membrane, working out the map of the cabin from memory alone. Not even Yondu can swagger around while blindfolded, but once he’s found his bearings he makes a damn good effort, managing to look confident right up until he stubs his toe on the metal leg. Then he swears, best he can through the gag, turning it to throat-clicks halfway. His eyes crack a sliver without his command. He slams them shut again immediately, but it’s enough. Kraglin sees. 

“Didya just open your eyes?” 

Yondu, the lying scoundrel, shakes his head. Rising from the chair, Kraglin crosses the distance in two loping steps. He doesn’t touch his captain, keeping him marooned in self-imposed darkness, but stands close enough that he can feel his heat, smell his breath. “Didya open your eyes, after I told you not to?” he repeats, all whisper and growl. 

Yondu shakes his head again. 

And Kraglin hooks his ankle between Yondu’s, and tips him onto the bed. “Wanna rethink that?” 

Yondu bounces with a grunt. This time though, his eyes stay shut. He pushes onto his elbows and cocks his head in Kraglin’s direction, mouth twitching around the ballgag into what might be intended as a laugh. And shakes his head for the third time. 

Oh. He’s _begging_ for it. “Alright,” says Kraglin softly. “On your belly then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tell me what you think of my filth**


	3. Chapter 3

He waits until Yondu’s arranged himself. Makes an unseen show of prowling all the way around the bed, assessing him from every angle. Even if Yondu’s eyes remain shut, his implant has that dull light to it that means he’s tracking Kraglin’s movements, and his breath hitches a moment before his palm lays flat on his back, twitching helplessly away from the contact.

Kraglin allows him no reprieve. Kneads the flesh, digging bony knuckles into the meat. “Relax,” he orders, with the hint of a snigger. If Yondu thinks he’s laughing at him, mocking him for flinching, that extra shard of humiliation’s only gonna drive him faster towards his peak. 

Sure enough, Yondu grates his teeth against the ballgag’s ungiving sphere, growls deep in his throat – and falls limp. 

Tension drains as if sucked vertically through Kraglin’s fingers. Kraglin uses his other hand to tug down those boxers until they’re trapping Yondu’s thighs. They stick on his captain’s hard cock, but Yondu hasn’t been ordered to move his hands and free himself, so he has to scrunch his nose and wriggle from the hips to let them slide free. 

After that, Kraglin lets himself explore without restriction. He massages down to the dip of the thick blue waist. Waits there, kneading circles into the dimples on his lower back, then traces lightly under him, urging him into a half-kneel, so he can rub Yondu’s sensitive hipbones and dip teasing fingers inside his pouch. 

Yondu’s fairly firm. But he’s got a pleasant softness around his sides and belly – enough to grab and squeeze. 

When Kraglin does so, he’s met with an eager hum. He imagines everything Yondu’s straining to say, tongue lathing the ballgag from behind. _This don’t feel much like punishment. Ya keep playin’ with my pouch, but ain’t no way you’re gonna put a pup in there. You plan on fucking me any time soon, or jus’ squeezin’ my flab all night?_ Waits, until Yondu’s fully obeyed his last order; until those aborted words have ceased and Yondu’s waiting for his next move in lax silence. Then he moves around to his side, lifting heavy blue wrists one by one. 

The handcuffs are already attached to the bars of the bed. The quiet clunks as they engage, tightening automatically, saps any rigidity from Yondu’s spine that’d gathered when he sensed Kraglin move. He kneels there, arms bracketing his head, knees tucked under him and back a long blue stretch: a tapestry of swirling tattoos and scars. And he waits. 

Kraglin breathes long and deep, relishing the moment’s tranquillity. 

Then takes the next toy out of his pocket. Slaps Yondu’s ass, urging him to kneel higher, and reaches under, past he stretched line of his boxers, to attach it to his leaking cock. 

The warmth between his legs is immense. Centaurians run cooler than Kraglin on the surface, designed for travel in the jungle, for absorbing condensation from the humid air. But Yondu’s core is hotter, and his blood-swollen erection borders scalding. That increases as the ring engulfs the thick cockroot. Kraglin engages the magnets, pulling it tight – then tighter still, until Yondu’s exhales make the sheets in front of his nose tremble. He gives him a few testing strokes, too light to do more than tease, hand gliding through the precum that drools from the tip in silvery ribbons. 

“Are you sorry yet?” he asks. Rubs over the vein, feeling his frenzied heartbeat. Testing the waters. 

Yondu immediately shakes his head – although he’s sweating under the collar and his dick’s pulsing desperately in Kraglin’s loose hold. “Good. We’ve barely begun. Wouldn’t want this to go too quick. Now, get yer boxers off.” 

Of course, with his hands pulled above his head, that’s easier said than done. Yondu huffs, saliva smearing the sheets. Arches his back, flexes and wriggles, cock bouncing in its ring, trying to undulate them down his thighs. Kraglin shifts behind him, one hand still on his prick, still fondling slow and maddeningly soft, and lets Yondu’s bare ass grind against his tented leather pants. 

Yondu works them halfway to his knees, growling in frustration, before Kraglin takes over. He makes sure Yondu hears his disappointed sigh. “Can’t even do this for yerself, can ya? And you call yerself captain.” He shoves Yondu’s chest back down, rebounding off the mattress. Hoists his legs to drag the boxers the rest of the way off. 

“Fuckin’ pathetic.” He hooks them over the arches of Yondu’s boot-calloused feet. They’re hard and strong, as electric blue as the rest of him. But as Kraglin spits his next words – “No wonder you make eyes at the nearest big fella. Like that Kree in the bar; don’t think I forgot!” – the foot in his grasp shudders. Toes curl. The soft skin in the arch wrinkles under the press of Kraglin’s thumbnail. 

This is where his boots don’t rub, where he’s delicate and fragile and just a little ticklish. “Yer a goddam mess,” Kraglin continues conversationally, as he paints spirals into that small square of blue skin, matching the ones on Yondu’s back. Makes him squirm, thighs squeezing and bare asscheeks rubbing over one another. “Ya need someone to fuck you down and take control. Don’t deny it –“ This, as Yondu burrows his forehead into the pillow, shaking his head, captive foot all but trembling. “We all know. Whole galaxy knows – soon as you walk in a place ya scope out the biggest, meanest lookin’ cunts and imagine what it’d be like for them t’bend ya over the nearest table.” 

Kraglin scrapes his nail down the foot’s very centre, heel to toe. Keeps talking, clear and matter-of-fact, not letting his voice drop into the filthy husk it so desperately wants to. “Yer a fuckin’ embarrassment sir. S’the only reason I do this. Stop you shamin’ the Ravager name by spreading your legs for every other cock-bearing critter that walks by. I’m doin’ the crew a favour, is all, and you oughta be grateful. Ugly slut like you? You’re lucky I let ya warm my cock.” 

Yondu’s head is still twitching from side to side. But Kraglin thinks he spies a few nods in there as well. 

He drops his foot. Spanks his ass, the blow jiggling across both cheeks, then again for good measure. “C’mon then,” he says, affecting disinterest. Splits blue buttocks with a single finger, stroking feather-light and twizzling over the pucker without spearing it. “Rub back against me or summin’. You want my cock, you gotta work for it.” 

It’s a struggle for Yondu to get his knees under him. Kraglin’s shuffled forwards; his legs are jarred apart by the intrusion, shins scraping on the sheet. His ass scrapes over the armour plate strapped round Kraglin’s thigh, and he whimpers – just once. It’s hastily stifled but unmistakable. Kraglin tuts like he’s lost patience and yanks him the rest of the way. Swats him again and again, hard and fast until both cheeks are blood-flushed and puffy; when he finally relents and allows Yondu to grind hotly against his zipper, it’s all his captain can do not to snort with pain. 

Kraglin reaches over his back. He hooks the collar and forces his spine to curve, belly scraping the mattress. Yawns, letting Yondu hear, and assesses his cringing attempts to rock his bruised ass over him, mock-dispassionately. “At this rate I’m gonna go soft,” he declares. Smacks him again, watches dark blood fill the space under his palm. “This really the best you can do?” 

Ah, a challenge. Yondu scoots his thighs wider, back a swooping rollercoaster. He thrusts rearwards and bangs into Kraglin like he’s trying to fuck himself through the leather. 

Kraglin’s prick’s about ready to burst through his fly and make that a reality. Hot _damn._ His captain, rubbing up against him, begging for his cock, his own dick stoppered and aching, chesty gasps purring out around the fat red gag… 

“Good enough, I suppose,” he croaks. Grabs Yondu’s hips, stilling the trembling attempts to continue, and waits until he’s breathing in flared-nostriled anticipation, visible face royal blue and spit-smeared. Rasps down his fly. And reaches for the lube.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Yum yum, more filth. Leave comments to commemorate your horniness.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This one's for the lovely Kat, who shall hereby be known as 'bottom!yondu bro'. Thank you for keeping me motivated!**

Had he been ten years younger, the relief of baring his cock to the cool cabin air would have brought about _la petite mort_ – or so Kraglin might’ve thought, if he spoke French.

As it is, he trails the sticky, bulbous head over the bruises that shade Yondu’s ass to the print of his hand. There’s fire in his gut: the anticipation of being inside him. He reaches between Yondu’s legs to fondle him from behind, and when his nails crimp the flesh above the cockring Yondu makes the best noise yet, breath whining out his nose. 

“You want it hard, I guess?” He doesn’t bother waiting for a nod or shake. However Yondu’s playing this out, whether he’s given in and accepted how much he needs to be used, or is clinging to denial and wanting to be _forced_ , he’s given himself over to Kraglin. Bar those memorized knocks that’ll bring their game to a halt, he’s gonna deal with the consequence. And, by the flushes and squirms when Kraglin twizzles a dry finger against his hole and sneers – “Ain’t seen a slut this hungry outside a brothel,” – he’s loving it. 

The lube tube’s half-empty. The dents are moulded to Kraglin’s fingertips; they pinch when he exerts pressure, and a gelatinous semisphere slides into his palm, cooling the skin for the briefest of moments before the warming agent kicks to life and a million tiny, soluble nanites nibble on every nerve. Holding it in the cup of your hand is pleasant. Having it smeared on ass and cock, even moreso. Kraglin, having sampled both, knows from experience when he coats a finger and slides it home – Yondu snorting, bucking, ass suckling sweetly at the digit – that his pelvis and lower back are sizzling like the stipple of static on sensitive skin. 

He retracts the finger. Scoops more, spreading his entire hand in a shimmering glove. When he adds the second, Yondu huffs and circles back on them, seat of his ass squelching loud and lewd. When the third joins the mix, he moans. The fourth makes him whimper – all a little too fast, a little too forceful, gouging him open as if Kraglin’s looking to steal a handful of innards. Kraglin smirks. Then cruelly spreads. 

Yondu’s stretched apart, opened beyond the point where he feels serviced and in control – Kraglin knows from the way he tenses, grinding his gagged mouth over the sheets and champing uselessly on the rubber. He teases the thumb against his distended rim, long enough to threaten. Then gradually retreats, pinky slipping from his slickened, clenching hole with no little reluctance. Yondu’s grateful. His ass pulls on Kraglin’s remaining digits, internal muscles a pulsing tide; and if the elastic vice around them ain’t quite as tight as when Kraglin started splaying it out, well, it just means Yondu’s gonna be lulled into a false sense of security and assume Kraglin’s entrance will be easy… 

Humming to himself, Kraglin removes his fingers with a twist and a pop. Yondu whimpers on the withdraw – he can hear it through the gag – and if his hands weren’t so sticky Kraglin’d yank the leash and choke him in false-punishment for being so demanding. He settles for sliding the excess lube along his prick, wiping any remnant on the sheets. Then takes the leash with one hand and bruised asscheek with the other, pulling on both to force Yondu’s spine into an uncomfortable arch while Kraglin sits on his heels and admires his captain’s swollen, puffy hole. 

It’s shiny and navy-raw, a fat droplet of lube teetering on the brink. Kraglin helps it over. Yondu’s hide’s a lil tougher than his, so when he smears the slick along Yondu’s crack he massages in slow circles until he’s certain the tingling gel has soaked through. Then, once his nostrils are flaring in a helpless effort at drawing more air and his face a brilliant blue, Kraglin squirts another dollop over his buttocks, tracing where his hand had landed so remorselessly not a minute before. 

Turns out Yondu’s outer epidermis is almost as permeable as his inner one. At least, it is when he’s been swatted until blood swells the surface. 

He tries to burrow his stomach down and ass up, spine popping and clicking. Kraglin loosens his grip a fraction, leather leash skidding along his palm, just so the jackass doesn’t throw his back and bitch for the next week. 

“Fuck,” he complains. “If a dab of this stuff gets ya so damn ready for a dicking, I’m thinking I oughta slather you up and leave you on the recc room table.” Yondu’s increasingly short breath only encourages. “Betchu’d like that too, huh? Placard round your neck sayin’ _free for all_ , tied on yer hands and knees with your ass in the air and gaping for whoever’s cock wanted it… Right lil’ whore. Wonder how long the rookies’d be shakin’ at the sight of ya if they knew how you fantasized about the whole Bridge crew takin’ ya one at a time, bent over yer captain’s chair –“ 

Yondu chokes on spit. Kraglin keeps an eye on him as he hacks and shudders, ensuring he doesn’t need to take out the gag and end their game early. When Yondu’s recovered (marginally, eyes leaking as much as his over-lubed ass) Kraglin seizes his hips and hoists them from where they’d collapsed to one side, back into a fuckable position. 

“Now,” he says, rutting his cockhead over the twitching hole. “Don’tchu do that again. I want ya to listen to me, when I’m tellin’ ya how Horuz is gonna use ya like that crusty old sock he fucks at night, and Czar’s gonna lick out his leavings while you swallow his cock. Gottit?” Universal translators ain’t exactly adapted for those dazed throaty clicks a Centaurian makes when they’re high on lust. Kraglin gets the message nevertheless. “P’raps I should call ‘em now? Huh, sir?” And he makes sure Yondu hears him toying with his comm. 

This is the test. Either Yondu trusts that Kraglin won’t actually scupper his standing with the crew in exchange for eking a smidgeon more humiliation out of their ritual fuck. Or he doesn’t. 

Yondu goes tense. His hole twitches against the tip of Kraglin’s cock, clamping as if unsure of whether it wants him in or out. Kraglin watches the strain climb his back, mapping the sudden definition of the muscles and the way his shoulders square. And he waits. 

He waits until Yondu relaxes. 

Chest sandwiched to the mattress, Yondu pliantly rolls his hips, beseeching him for more. No knocking. No bids for escape. Just a submissive invitation for Kraglin to do as he wills. 

The temptation’s like a heroin shot. He could actually follow through with it. Ring Czar over and have him take Yondu’s mouth, or his prick, while Kraglin batters his ass. Or – better yet – they could fill Yondu together, ply him open until he can be stuffed with two cocks at once and left overflowing with their mingling jizz. He’d limp and cuss and gripe to high heaven the morning after, but never say _no._

Kraglin has to wipe his lower lip. Perhaps he’ll talk to Yondu about that, once he’s fucked him free of the day’s cares. A blissed out boss is always more amenable to Kraglin’s zanier schemes, and, well, they’ve known Czar since before Yondu made captain… 

Maybe next time. 

Kraglin depowers his watch, noticing the residual dregs of stiffness drain from Yondu’s neck and shoulders. “Dang. Jackass says he’s got other business. Must be somethin’ more important than keepin’ his slut of a captain full of dick.” He rubs the swell of an abused asscheek, popping his cocktip an inch deeper and gritting his teeth to quench the need to thrust. It’s worth it, to see Yondu champ the gag in determination to control himself. “Let’s you an’ me get this over with, huh?” 

He bottoms out in one slick thrust. Then, without allowing a second for adjustment, drags out and punches back in, dragging Yondu’s body onto his until his shoulder joints strain and he scrabbles at the headboard. 

Kraglin fucks him hard enough to bang that headboard off the wall. 

It’s louder than a cosmic storm, an orchestral cymbal-crash that rattles them both from jaw to toes. Metal screeches. Kraglin swears he sees a spark and thrusts harder, throwing all of his bodyweight into the repetitive pound so Yondu feels like he’s being pummelled through the mattress. His hips snap like the firing pin on an automatic. Skin slaps skin, red-white on blue, and fingers tremble as they clutch the bars to which Yondu’s wrists are chained. 

Kraglin doesn’t have much meat on him, but he’s stronger than he looks. While he doesn’t doubt his captain could take him in a hand-to-hand fight, this is about breaking him down. Kraglin needs to press this physical advantage while Yondu’s lashed up and helpless, not merely _longing_ to submit but unable to do anything else. 

With that in mind, Kraglin rams in to the root. He savors the flutter of Yondu’s muscles as they clutch his pulsing cock. When he palms Yondu’s own shaft, heavy and swollen above that wicked ring, his channel flexes in ineffable hunger and lube slides out around Kraglin’s base, staining Yondu’s perineum. Not even the artificial pleasure of the nanite-gel can compete with that. 

Power’s what Yondu craves. To own it, but also to allow someone else to shoulder its burden every once in a while. Kraglin can do that. And, as is emphasized when he yanks on the collar around Yondu’s throat, forcing his muscular back into an agonizing arch and sinking that impossible inch deeper, he does so _brilliantly_. 

“Gonna cum so hard ya taste it,” he growls, grinding in place. Maintaining a steady voice is beyond impossible. He manages to minimize the quaver, keep his tone sinister and cruel. “Keep you plugged up and dirty until I next wanna use your hole. S’all you’re good for, anyway.” 

Eyes glazed, Yondu nods. 

Kraglin knows that look. He’s pushed his captain to the very brink. He could do whatever he pleased in this moment: carve his name across the scars on his back, stuff him with toys and make him beg for release, spread him open and snap pictures to broadcast across every network on board… 

It’s time to slow things down, before he gets carried away. 

The ballgag’s of a shade with his implant and leaking eyes, slippery with saliva and large enough to cramp Yondu’s wide-wedged jaws. It’s almost a shame to remove it. When the straps peel off, they reveal a band of bruising that encircles Yondu’s skull and stripes his cheeks like warpaint. But blue foundation was one of the first tools Kraglin invested in, and if Yondu’s mouth’s too fucked up to talk right – well, he ain’t got the clearest voice on the best days. 

“Good boy,” he purrs as Yondu weakly forces his mouth wider so the ball can slither free. It’s followed by a fair amount of drool. With his hands tied Yondu can’t mop it up, so Kraglin does it for him, resisting the instinct to keep fucking long enough to rub the sheet corner over Yondu’s damp chin. He tips his face to one side, light glancing off his captain’s cheekbones, and rubs soothingly at his broken lips. “There we go. Thassit. I got you now.” 

Breath stutters over Kraglin’s fingertips, hot and humid. Yondu’s eyes are unfocussed, and when Kraglin breaks the lock on the handcuffs and rolls them so they’re seated, Yondu’s chest against his back, rim stretched wide around the base of Kraglin’s cock, he’s almost deadweight: too limp to balance himself and too limp to resist. Kraglin guides him to bounce though, and Yondu’s muscle memory takes over where his mind lags far behind. He works Kraglin off slow and sweet, thigh muscles bunching under his palms, and never once makes to stroke his own prick, although it’s got to be painful by now. “Good boy,” Kraglin manages one last time. He knows Yondu hears him. His head drops back on Kraglin’s shoulder, implant digging into his collarbone, and rests there as Kraglin bathes his channel in cum. 

It takes several long blinks for the haze to clear. Kraglin finds Yondu sat on his softening shaft. The squeeze of his internals is too much to bear, so Kraglin urges him up and off, swatting gently at his puffy, dripping ass. Yondu doesn’t so much as flinch. He shivers in that brief moment where contact is broken, when Kraglin leans off the bed to grab the nearby box of tissues, sponging lube off his prick before the tingling turns irritant. When Kraglin returns he all but liquefies against him, boneless but for his dark blue member and the cockring tight as a tourniquet at its root. Kraglin wraps him in reedy arms and plucks at his nipples while decoupling the magnetic circlet. 

After that, Yondu’s release is almost instantaneous. It doesn’t require more than a brush of Kraglin’s fingers. Yondu spurts up his own chest, obviously pent up, filling Kraglin’s palm with musky white. When his head thuds Kraglin’s shoulder for the second time, that dazed blankness has been replaced with bliss. 

Kraglin kisses him then, uncaring for his sticky handful. He cradles his captain’s torso from behind and presses his mouth everywhere it can reach – cheeks, neck, ear, mouth. “I got you,” he reaffirms. “I got you, and I ain’t letting go.” 

It’s disgustingly sincere. That sort of nonsense’d usually earn him a scoff, a suckerpunch, and teasing for a week. In these moments though, after he’s broken him down and built him back up, Kraglin reckons even a Ravager captain needs to feel loved. 

Yondu’s eyes are shut. But he nuzzles closer, and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **...Written rather quickly (as per frickin' usual) so I'll try and edit it later today. But I hope you enjoyed this filth.**
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> **I love all my commenters. Come join the family.**
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**Author's Note:**

> **Hot damn, bottom!Yondu is my jam**
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> **Please comment!**
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> ****


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